


The Shadow of your coat

by Imjohnlocked87



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: 10YearsOfSherlock, Angst with a Happy Ending, Episode Fix-It: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, First Kiss, Grief/Mourning, Grieving John Watson, Johnlock - Freeform, Love Confessions, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Sad Greg Lestrade, Sad John, Sherlock's Coat, Sherlock's Violin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-19
Updated: 2020-07-19
Packaged: 2021-03-04 22:34:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25383889
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Imjohnlocked87/pseuds/Imjohnlocked87
Summary: After attending Sherlock's funeral, John takes a car to the airport to avoid returning to Baker Street.Halfway through, he remembers leaving Sherlock's violin open on his armchair and decides to turn around to give it to Mycroft.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 93
Collections: 10 Years of Sherlock





	The Shadow of your coat

Lestrade stopped in front of Baker Street's door and sighed, mustering the courage to go in. Reality and his imagination had made him aware that behind that door, anything could happen. But he never thought he would do it to accompany John to Sherlock's funeral.

Better said, given the detective's recklessness and utter lack of self-protection, he feared one of his cases would end up in the worst possible scenario. But none of them ended with Sherlock jumping off Bart's roof in front of John's eyes, after confessing that he created Moriarty, that all was a trick, that nobody could be that smart. 

One image burned into his memory and his heart. When, shortly before the suicide, he arrested Sherlock in Baker Street and handcuffed him, ignoring John's protestations that it was not necessary because the detective was not resisting. He even threatened to arrest John as well. And so, handcuffed, the Yards shoved him out into the street, in front of countless reporters and onlookers' eyes, one more humiliation, unnecessary, like the handcuffs, that brought a triumphant smile to Donovan and Anderson's face. Finally, the freak was where he should be: handcuffed, arrested, humiliated, alone. Finally, the world knew that he was nothing but a fake, that his alleged abilities were a lie and that, as the sergeant had predicted so many times, he had been the perpetrator. 

Lestrade hid his face in his hands. It was true that Donovan and Anderson filled his head with arguments supporting Sherlock's guilt, and that the evidence was all against him. But that was no excuse. He forgot all about the detective, the man he knew, and replaced it with the image of the self-centered psychopath painted by the sergeant and the forensic. Lestrade should have stayed by Sherlock's side as John did. Loyal, turning a deaf ear to everything and everyone, journalists, rumor-mongers, or the Yard. No one could convince him that Sherlock was lying. He even broke the Chief Intendant's nose to get himself handcuffed with the detective. Even played hostage to save him. Greg instead... he was just another drop in the bucket that ended up pushing the detective off the roof. 

John didn't hold it against him. Better said, the doctor didn't tell him anything. He hadn't said a word since he was attended after lost consciousness at the sight of Sherlock's body bleeding out in front of him. From that moment on, John Watson turned into a soul in sorrow, with a whiskey bottle as his only companion. 

But Lestrade knew that he didn't try hard enough to contact him, to comfort his friend in the fifteen days that had passed since the detective's death. Because John was his friend, and he, full of guilt and anguish, wasn't there when John needed him most. He didn't know how to help him if anyone could. 

He got into Speedy's and ordered a coffee, hoping that the caffeine would help him get up the courage. It was still early, and he needed to clear his head a little. No. There was nothing to clear up. He had been an asshole, being taken against Sherlock by the same people who hated him from the first day when, high on drugs, told them they were wrong about a murder case. 

He couldn't put it off any longer. He stood up slowly and gestured to the owner, who refused to take the money from him, which made his heart even smaller. He went outside and opened the door to Baker Street. 

A black silence enveloped him. He would have given anything to hear any of the sounds that used to come from it: John and Sherlock arguing, John scolding Sherlock, Sherlock firing at the wall, playing the violin, John typing on his computer or protesting because the detective appropriated it, the sound of the kettle boiling… but there was only a deafening silence. 

"Good morning, Greg," Mrs. Hudson's voice made him turn around. She was all dressed in black, and that vitality that characterized her was gone. A sad smile, eyes red from crying, steps slow and hesitant, the landlady seemed to have aged decades. 

She stepped forward, climbed the seventeen steps, and opened the door. The two stopped at the entrance, next to the doctor's bags. He decided to leave Baker Street forever. 

Sitting in his armchair, head in hand, dressed for the funeral but barefoot, was John. He did not attempt to turn around when he heard the door open, he didn't move an inch. He continued to stare at the violin, which, since Sherlock's death, had been the only occupant of the detective's armchair. 

"John, dear, we must go," whispered Mrs. Hudson. 

The doctor remained motionless until, slowly, he began to put his shoes on. If Mrs. Hudson had grown old, John was not even a shadow of his former self. He was only emptiness, sorrow, grieving, desolation, and misery... Unlike Mrs. Hudson, he didn't shed a single tear. He was not able to. He had so much pain inside that he couldn't even cry. 

He looked at Greg and Mrs. Hudson without seeing them. 

"I called him machine," John mused, so low that they barely heard him. "It was the last thing I said to him. I called him a machine. I should have realized it wasn't true. That Sherlock would never have stood still if something had happened to you, Mrs. Hudson. But..."

The landlady came over and gently patted his arm. 

"Don't give it another thought, John. You talked to him. You did your best. And you know what Sherlock was like when he got something into his head. No one could have stopped him." 

John nodded, finding no comfort in the landlady's words. He took Sherlock's violin carefully and put it in its case, with delicate movements, almost as if he were putting a child to bed. He left it on the detective's chair. The only way that the chair didn't become another chasm for the doctor. 

The three of them went down quietly and got into one of the two black limousines waiting for them, in the other, Mycroft and Anthea. Both cars rolled slowly, as black as the grief of their occupants. 

The five of them walked to one of the front pews of the church. Sherlock was never a religious man, so John assumed that it had been his parents' doing, although they had not had the strength to attend the funeral, the same as Molly, who excused herself. At the top of the altar, a picture of Sherlock. It would be Mycroft, who would make the eulogy. John didn't have the strength to do it. 

Lestrade feared, for a moment, that only the five of them would attend the funeral. But the large church was packed to the rafters. He recognized Angelo, totally dejected, sitting in one of the first pews, and his waiters. Henry Knight, from the Baskerville case, and Amanda, the woman to whom Sherlock returned the nine million pound green jade hairpin. The young man, woman, and girl whom Sherlock released from the belt full of explosives, and a large group of his homeless network, on behalf of all. Thus, all those whom the detective helped, saved from being unjustly accused of a crime, released after being kidnapped or held hostage for ransom. Even Irene Adler and her assistant, discreetly sitting on one of the side benches in the back, came. They were all there. None of them doubted the detective for a second. Unlike him. 

Mycroft got up and went over to the lectern. The door opened, and Donovan and Anderson came in, accompanied by Gregson and the Chief Superintendent.

John, who remained motionless until then, absent from all that was going on around him, turned, noticing their presence. His gesture of sadness gave way to one of disbelief and finally reflected infinite rage. He rose to his feet, and before Lestrade could stop him, he strides up to them and faces Donovan and Anderson. 

"What are you doing here?" he bellowed. 

Sally and Anderson looked at him, surprised, and dumbfounded. They went because they were supposed to go and because the freak's funeral was supposed to be a curious thing. However, they couldn't deny that they were surprised to see the church so crowded.

"We…" Donovan gestured to where Mycroft was standing, gazing at them silently, lips pursed, eyebrows raised. 

"Get out of here. You have no right to be here." 

"We have..."

"GET OUT!" John roared. He pointed to Sherlock's photo. "That happened because you bullied him, sink, insult, and slander him in front of everyone. You told me that the day he was taken into custody. That you knew he would d cross the line one day. It was you, with your taunts, envy, and hatred, who pushed him to do it. You didn't stop until you made Lestrade believe that he was guilty. You fed the rumors coming out in the press about Sherlock creating Moriarty, that he was a fraud. You, who did nothing but discredit him. You, Donovan, who the first day we met told me to stay away from him. And the two of you, who kept calling him Freak. You have no right to be here. Bullies like you are responsible for this shit". 

Lestrade got up and went over to them. 

"Go away," he asked. 

"We..." repeated Donovan. How could the DI now side with the freak? Or that John was so affected by his death?

"Get out of here!!!!" John's cry echoed throughout the place. "You have no right to be here!!!!"

Dimmock pulled them out, and the three of them left the place. 

All the attendants remained silent, looking at the doctor. Then Angelo started to applaud. At first, only his applause echoed through the room. Mrs. Hudson and Henry immediately joined him, and soon everyone in the room was giving a standing ovation. A standing ovation addressed to both of them: the absent Sherlock and the angry John, who stuck his face out for him. 

When the last echo of the ovation sounded, John, panting, his face still angry, turned to Mycroft, who was still standing in front of the lectern. 

"And you, be careful what you say. One stupid thing, and I'll break you in two". 

The room erupted with laughter. Sherlock would have loved that.

Soon after, in the cemetery, when finally everyone, including Mrs. Hudson, left him alone, John stood by Sherlock's grave, a shallow marble tablet with the detective's name on it. 

"You... you told me once that you weren't a hero. There were times I didn't even think that you were human, but let me tell you this: you were the best man and the most human... human being that I've ever known and no-one will ever convince me that you told me a lie..." 

He was about to walk away when he turned back again: 

"No, please, there's just one more thing, mate, one more thing: one more miracle, Sherlock, for me. Don't... be," his voice broke and filled with tears "dead. Would you do...? Just for me. Just stop it. Stop this", he begged, gesturing down at the grave. 

John walked away and got into the black car that would take him to the airport. When they had been rolling for almost half an hour, he remembered that he had left Sherlock's violin in his armchair. He was sure Mycroft's minion would pick Sherlock's things from the flat, but..., he wasn't sure they would be careful enough with Sherlock's most precious treasure. His violin. John closed his eyes, letting the tears roll down his cheeks, and decided to go back to Baker Street, take the violin, give it to Mycroft and never return. 

He walked up the stairs slowly. Mrs. Hudson had gone to spend a few days with her sister, so he was surprised to see the knock on the door, which Mycroft set straight when he went to pick them up, crooked. John smirked sadly. It must have been one of Speedy's waiters. They knew Sherlock liked it that way, mainly to annoy his brother. 

John opened the door and looked at the foyer, where he and Sherlock stood laughing the day they met after chasing the taxi driver. Slowly he climbed the steps, which he had so often rushed down behind the detective, barely having time to get dressed, as the detective flew off to some case after being called by Lestrade. He climbed each step slower, short of breath as if he were approaching to hell. The last steps were so agonizing, he thought of turning around. 

He went inside and turned on the light. He was not surprised to see Sherlock sitting in his armchair, wearing his coat, violin in hand, impregnating his bow with resin dust, as he saw him do so many times, slowly, with a care and affection that the detective only gave to the violin. 

Since he died, John saw Sherlock all the time: doing experiments, lying on the sofa, sitting on his armchair... sometimes, sleepless, lying in the darkness of the bed, the doctor thought he heard him play the violin, but when he went into the living room, everything was dark, silent and empty. 

That's why he decided to leave Baker Street. He didn't want to stop seeing Sherlock but knew he needed to do it to move on with whatever was ahead of him, because, without Sherlock, his existence couldn't be any longer called a life. 

"Hello, John," the detective said. 

"Hello, Sherlock." 

He wasn't surprised either. He talked to Sherlock a lot since his death. More than ever. Sometimes the detective answered him, sometimes not.

He hesitated and decided to make himself one last cup of tea, enjoying the detective's ghost company for the last time. He remained silent as he waited for the water to boil, watching the elegant movement of the detective's hand as he applied the resin to the bow. 

Sherlock smirked. 

"Kicking Donovan and Anderson out of the funeral..." 

This time John found it curious. Usually, his visions of Sherlock were static, and he rarely smiled. But he assumed that, in his subconscious, he knew that the detective was grateful to him for coming to his defense, even though it was too late.

He put his hands on the counter and dropped his head, drowning out a sob. It was too late. Too late, he came to his defense. Too late, he made his feelings about the detective clear. Because, as he ran in handcuffs beside Sherlock, when he took his hand, he realized he wanted to spend the rest of his life this way, holding his hand. Not as a friend, but as his lover. His love. His lover. But it was too late. 

He sank his head even deeper and sobbed, disconsolate. He cut himself short and wiped his eyes. He was a soldier and had to assume that it was too late, crying was no longer any use, and, without Sherlock, nothing in his life would make sense anymore. 

He startled to notice Sherlock stood up and was beside him in the kitchen. Just as he never smiled, Sherlock's ghost rarely moved. He stayed static, lying on the couch, or sat in the kitchen until John came out of the living room. When he returned, he found the detective somewhere else. And he remained there until John went out of the living room again. 

He turned around, coming face to face with the figure of his friend. 

"John, I'm not dead. I never jumped off the roof. Well, technically I did, but I didn't fall to the ground," the ghost said softly, as afraid to scare him. 

John shook his head. The hallucination was just saying what he wanted to hear. Because that's what it was, a hallucination. A deep duel could provoke them; he knew it from his medical training. But hallucinations don't interact with you. And the detective seemed so real, so alive that it hurt.

Sherlock reached out to him. 

"John, don't cry anymore. I'm alive. I'm here with you. I came back for you." 

John threw his head back, closed his eyes, and tears streamed down his cheeks. A hallucination, a hallucination repeated itself. He opened them again, hoping that the ghost of Sherlock had vanished. 

As he did, his gaze fell on the shadow cast by Sherlock's coat behind him. He frowned. Hallucinations didn't cast shadows because they weren't corporeal. 

John extended a trembling hand that slowly moved closer to the detective, afraid to try to feel him and discover that there was nothing, as had happened to him before. Sherlock's ghost also extended his hand and brought it close to John's, as slowly and shakily as the doctor's, as if he too was overwhelmed with emotion, until both hands touched. 

John threw himself at Sherlock. The detective closed his eyes, not quite sure what to expect. And when he realized it, John was hugging him, his head resting in the crack of his neck, sobbing like a little boy, holding him tightly, as if he feared that Sherlock would vanish from one moment to the next, determined to stop him. 

"But... how...?" he managed to mumble between sobs. 

"Well," Sherlock separated him a little so that he could look at the doctor, "you can't ask for a miracle and be surprised that it came true." 

John laughed and cried at the same time. He looked at the detective, his face also full of tears, his scowl, the guilt in his eyes. He was happy, relieved, angry... he wanted to kiss Sherlock while strangling him.

"You, you...." 

"I'm sorry for all you suffered, but it was necessary. There was no other way. I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry. I would have given anything for things to be different, but... I had no choice." 

"If you want me to forgive you, it's not going to be enough just to apologize." 

The detective raised an eyebrow. 

"When you... left, I thought of all the missed opportunities, but mostly that I was too coward to do this." 

John brushed his lips gently to the detective's, not quite sure how he would react. No. Bullshit. He knew how he would respond. He may not be Sherlock Holmes, but looking back on his years with him, he put all the pieces of the puzzle together. And indeed, Sherlock, surprised at first, relaxed and let himself be kissed at first, and then kissed him back more passionately, as John did, the two melting into a messy, clumsy, passionate kiss until somehow they found the perfect coordination. 

Sherlock parted, panting, blinking rapidly, his brain trying desperately to process what had just happened. 

"Throughout these days, I imagined many reunions, but not this one." 

"Don't get too excited. I'm waiting for your explanation. And if it's not good, I'll beat the crap out of you." 

"You're still in danger, John. You, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson. I managed to get rid of the three snipers, but there'll be others soon. 

"Snipers?" 

Suddenly it all made sense in John's brain. The whole thing had been staged to protect them.

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't... I wasn't sure, and I didn't want to put you in danger. You had to believe it, to think that it was all real. It was the only way to trick Moriarty into taking the bait." Sherlock put his head down. "I... I hoped I wouldn't have to, but... when Moriarty shot himself in the head, I had no choice. Otherwise, you will be dead now." 

"So why did you come back?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip. 

"Because you asked me to. Because I can't let you suffer, John, because... Because…. I know that telling you this is... a bit not good, but... these days without you have been hell. In fact, I should be miles away by now, but... the idea of more time far from you was unbearable because...," Sherlock wrinkled his nose and breathed in, "I love you'.

"A hell, you say." John blinked. "What?"

"I know. I have no right to tell you this now you must hate me but... I love you." 

He stroked John's cheek tenderly, wiping away the tears that still covered it. The doctor bowed his head, laying it in his soft, warm, living hand, oblivious to the whirlwind of emotions that was overwhelming him. They would talk later. He would release his anger later. Now he just wanted to enjoy the miracle that Sherlock was there in front of him. That Sherlock came back for him. Because he loved him. 

He took Sherlock's hand and squeezed it tenderly. 

"I love you too."

They melted back into an embrace, John letting out a sob from time to time, Sherlock softly humming a song, stroking the doctor's hair, trying to comfort him, rocking their bodies gently, both letting go of the sorrow, anguish, loneliness and pain of those days apart. 

"Thank for coming back to me." whispered John, his voice muffled by Sherlock's body.

"I'd be lost without my blogger." 

Both chuckled quietly. Sherlock broke the hug and looked at John, concerned.

"I have to get you to safety. Mycroft and his men..."

"Oh, of course. He was in on it, wasn't he?" John squinted. "And your parents. That's why they didn't come to the funeral!" 

Sherlock nodded again. 

"How does Mycroft feel about you being back?"

Sherlock smirked. 

"He doesn't know, he is finding now."

The door slammed. Sherlock jumped in front of John to protect him from a possible sniper. Mycroft, livid, strode into the living room. 

"May I know what you were thinking, little brother? Don't you realize you put John and the others in danger? Can you tell me what you are playing at?"

"It's none of your business." 

Mycroft raised his hands to the sky. 

"None of my business? You know what it took to set up this whole scam for you to blow it on a whim... because you got... sentimental?" he hissed the last word as if it were poisonous. 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, but before he could do so, John stepped forward and stood between the two brothers. 

"Look, Mycroft, I know you are used to bossing your brother around, but I'm not going to let you do the same to my boyfriend." 

The two brothers gaped. Sherlock, incredulous that anyone would call him his boyfriend and Mycroft, his brain unable to process the doctor was not only standing up to him but giving him orders. 

"Doctor Watson, you don't understand the seriousness of... You don't know what it takes to do what Sherlock just did". 

"I do. Perfectly. Much better than you do. He just blew all that crap about love and sentiment you have been telling him during his whole life". 

Mycroft smiled smugly. 

"He put you in danger, you idiot!" 

"He saved my life, you idiot."

Sherlock lowered his head, drowning out a laugh at Mycroft's stunned face. His brain was still spinning around what John said, and he had room in his Mental Palace for little else. His boyfriend. John's boyfriend.

"So, take your umbrella, get out of here, and don't reappear until I tell you, got it?"

Mycroft pressed his lips. 

"You got it, Mycroft?" growled John in his best Captain's voice. 

"Understood," he chewed. 

"Now get out. I'm going to scold my boyfriend for faking his death and then kiss him some more." 

"Couldn't we just skip to the kissing part?" asked Sherlock. John scowled at him. "No, of course not." He turned to Mycroft, 'You heard J..., my boyfriend. When we go over the plan, we'll let you know." 

Mycroft sighed. 

"I'll leave men to watch you and put others to watch Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson until you finish your... kissing".

He forced a smile and was about to storm out of the flat when he turned around.

"Since you're scolding my little brother for faking his death, you might as well do it for jumping out of a moving car for you."

"Mycroft!" protested Sherlock. 

John looked at him in disbelief, tilting his head. 

"You jumped out of a moving car?"

"It's Mycroft's fault; his driver didn't stop when I asked him to." 

John turned to the older Holmes, who tensed at the unexpected turn of the conversation. 

"What were you thinking? Don't you know him?"

Sherlock looked at Mycroft as if to say, _Now, you're going to take it out on him_. 

"I had the door lock on his car, but Anthea decided it was... romantic." 

John shook his head and laughed. He hugged Sherlock as Mycroft left the flat.

"You jumped out of a car to come back to me?" he smiled, kissing him softly. 

"Out of a car, off a roof... I'd jump from anywhere to be with you." Sherlock smiled, softly kissing him back. 

"Okay, from now on, we'll limit romance to flowers and chocolates. 

"Boring"

John looked him straight in the eye. 

"Don't ever do anything like that to me again. I'm still not entirely sure you're here, standing next to me, alive." 

Sherlock lowered his head. 

"I'm sorry, I..." 

"No, don't be." John smiled, "Kiss me," he whispered, grabbing Sherlock by the waist and drawing him in. Sherlock brushed his lips lightly against John's, the kiss soft and sweet.

John tilted his head and pulled his hair gently. Sherlock moaned and deepened the kiss, as John licked at Sherlock's upper lip, slowly tracing it with his tongue. The detective parted his lips and felt John's tongue gently stroking his tongue against his.

Sherlock closed his eyes, melting in the kiss, in John's warm body and expert lips, in the happiness of being finally kissed by John. The doctor grabbed him firmly, kissing Sherlock's soft lips, the feeling erasing the grief, the pain, and anguish, his heart beating again.

They both parted only to breathe. 

"You are still in danger." 

"We will figure out." 

Sherlock smiled. 

"I know. In the meantime… could you kiss me again?"

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading. Hope you enjoyed this 10 years celebration fic!


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